The parcel arrives containing
The Anxious Generation by Jonathan Haidt
and a letter from a family member
asking whether or not you think
the divorce has anything to do with it
And you want nothing more
than to send in return
a bloodied bandage
fragments of glass
your own heart
*
the empty room
the open window
*
The third time the ambos came
they were brisk and kind
and utterly unable to staunch the bleeding
for all the minutes your son
lies sobbing and clenched
a tattered thing
inside his cupboard
*
Armistice is the knifeblock on the kitchen bench
once more,
headache tablets in an unlocked
drawer,
a brief cessation in the drawing up
of battle lines on tender flesh
